o more deform--
His garments, made of beaver, deer, and rat,
Are now exchanged for woollen doublets warm--
He wears a hat.

His very pipe, surcharged with sacred weed,
Once smoked to spirits dreamy, dread and sore,
Is laid aside--to think, to plan, to read--
He keeps a store.

This is the law of progress--kindlier arts
Have shaped his native energies of mind,
And back he comes--from wandering, woods and darts
Back to mankind.

His drum and rattles, both are thrown away--
His native altars stand without a blaze,--
Truth, robed in gospel light, hath found her way--
And hark! he prays!

THE LOON'S FOOT.

I thought it was the loon's foot, I saw beneath the tide,
But no--it was my lover's shining paddle I espied;
It was my lover's paddle, as my glance I upward cast,
That dipped so light and gracefully as o'er the lake I passed.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
'Tis graceful on the sea;
But not so light and joyous as
That paddle blade to me.

My eyes were bent upon the wave, I cast them not aside,
And thought I saw the loon's foot beneath the silver tide.
But ah! my eyes deceived me--for as my glance I cast,
It was my lover's paddle blade that dipped so light and fast.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
'Tis sweet and fair to see,
But oh, my lover's paddle blade,
Is sweeter far to me.

The lake's wave--the long wave--the billow big and free,
It wafts me up and down, within my yellow light canoe;
But while I see beneath heaven pictured as I speed,
It is that beauteous paddle blade, that makes it heaven indeed.
The loon's foot--the loon's foot,
The bird upon the sea,
Ah! it is not so beauteous
As that paddle blade to me.

TULCO, PRINCE OF NOTTO.

Tulco, a Cherokee chief, is said to have visited, in 1838, the rotunda,
or excavations, under the great mound of Grave Creek, while the Indian
antiquities were collected there, and the skeleton found in the lower
vault was suspended to the wall, and the exudations of animal matter
depended from the roof.

'Tis not enough that hated race
Should hunt us out from grove and place,
And consecrated shores, where long
Our fathers raised the lance and song--
'Tis not enough that we must go
Where unknown streams and fountains flow,
Whose murmurs heard amid